


Bagpipes and Boat Engines

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Les Travailleurs de la mer | Toilers of the Sea - Victor Hugo
Genre: Fix-It, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:49:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21941416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: Gilliatt has rescued the Durande, but has no desire to marry Deruchette. Mess Lethierry is bewildered.
Relationships: Gilliatt/Mess Lethierry
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Bagpipes and Boat Engines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



Gilliatt is an angel who has brought about Mess Lethierry’s salvation. He is also, on his triumphant return from the Douvres, a complete mess. The smell of sea has permeated him in a way it rarely permeates even sailors, and there are odd circular marks on his arm and chest, as well as many abrasions all over his body. He is thin, much thinner than Lethierry remembers him being when he left. His eyes are aflame with emotions Lethierry cannot name.

Lethierry has food brought to Gilliatt—bread, beer, meat, fruit, he offers everything there is in his kitchen, puts himself at Gilliatt’s service. Gilliatt eats, but not as much as Lethierry thinks he probably ought. “I ate earlier,” he says. “There is food of sorts at the Douvres. One can eat clams, sea lice… all sorts of things, in fact.”

Lethierry squeezes Gilliatt’s shoulder and says, “Very resourceful, of course! I would expect no less from the heroic Gilliatt. Still, you are sure you do not want any more? I am, as you have made me, a rich man now, and if it pleases you I will spend every franc of my fortune on setting a table for your dinner. And I would still be in your debt.”

Gilliatt beams, but he only says, “No, no, I am not hungry.”

Lethierry has a bath drawn with warm water then—food is not all Gilliatt requires in his current condition. He banishes all inquiring eyes from the house and brings Gilliatt upstairs to the tub. “I’m sure you’ve had enough of water, but this will warm you up. And some of those injuries look as if they should be cleaned in something other than salt water.”

“I must look dreadful,” Gilliatt murmurs. “Of course. I don’t want to look a sight in your house.”

Lethierry thinks Gilliatt looks quite glorious—every tear of his clothing, every scratch on his skin, is a sign of the battle he has fought with the elements. But he cannot imagine it is a pleasant state to be in. He helps Gilliatt out of his clothes and into the water, and insists that Gilliatt lie back and rest while Lethierry washes his skin, running a warm washcloth over the cuts and rubbing soap through his hair.

Gilliatt does not protest. He quietly accepts Lethierry’s ministrations. The only thing he says in response to Lethierry’s running list of praises is, when the bath is over, “Then I will pilot the Durande for you. There is nothing I would like better.”

“And marry Deruchette,” Lethierry says eagerly.

Gilliatt frowns. In a voice oddly cold, he says, “I told you I would not marry Deruchette.”

“That was nonsense. What, did you play those bagpipes outside the house for my enjoyment, then?”

“Maybe I did,” Gilliatt says, eyes bright in an odd, out-of-place defiance.

Lethierry laughs and wonders why Gilliatt lies. It does not matter though. Gilliatt will marry Deruchette—there is no finer man in Guernsey, or even abroad, that Lethierry has ever met—he will be part of the family, and sail the Durande, and stay at Les Bravees forever instead of his lonely little house. Lethierry will make sure they take good care of him, too. After this, he wants nothing more than to give Gilliatt the best he can offer, for Gilliatt in doing this has saved more than Lethierry’s life.

* * *

Then Deruchette runs away while Lethierry is off in Bremen.

With a priest, of all things!

“It doesn’t matter,” Gilliatt says in response to a long rant from Lethierry. “I told you I would not marry her, didn’t I? Of course I understand you must be sad that your daughter has run away from you.” He looks a bit guilty.

“That girl said she would marry you, and now she vanishes! My sweet Deruchette! I cannot understand this kind of behavior, really I can’t. My dear Gilliatt, I am so sorry. How can I ever repay this wrong? The love of your life…”

“I told you I did not love Deruchette,” Gilliatt says. “Though she is very nice and pretty, and I hope she will be happy.”

He seems to even be telling the truth; his voice does not waver, and though there is some restrained emotion in his eyes, it is nothing equal to the despair one would feel at losing one’s love. Lethierry is mystified. He does not understand Gilliatt, realizes now that he has never understood Gilliatt. What, is this man a warlock as the village mutters of him? Some kind of fae creature with motivations beyond human ken? Two months on the Douvres! Two months, and a return with a battered body wrapped in soaking-wet rags. No one does that for the love of a ship not their own—hell, rare the man who’d do it for a woman. And why the bagpipes then, the pretty little tunes played at Lethierry’s window for not only months but years?

When he asks, Gilliatt says only, “Did you not like the music?”

“It got to be a little much,” Lethierry says honestly—to be more honest, it was sometimes annoying, but he’s not going to say that to his savior.

Gilliatt says, “My apologies, then. I should not have bothered you.”

“Forget that—what does it matter? But… if you did not love Deruchette…”

“I have explained myself before,” Gilliatt says. “I did hope the music would please you. As for the Durande…” His gaze becomes evasive. “Well, I wanted to sail her for you. And you did say I could.”

“And you will, of course, you will as soon as she’s been remade—but good Lord, was that the height of your ambitions? I have never known a man to match you, Gilliatt!”

“Nor I a man to match you,” Gilliatt says, and there is heat in his gaze, and Lethierry still doesn’t know what he means but he knows it means something and something good, and to be so high in the regard of a man like Gilliatt… well.

It is surely something to be pleased about.

And he should be satisfied—Gilliatt has offered simple reasoning and Lethierry should not doubt his honesty—but still Lethierry does doubt, or doubts that he has the full story. Simple reasoning, but Gilliatt is not a simple man; this is known throughout Guernsey. Lethierry wants to know the answer to the riddle, see the whole of the picture. If he does not understand Gilliatt’s desires, after all, how on Earth will he make the man happy?

* * *

Deruchette does not come back for some time, but Lethierry finds he is neither angry nor lonely. His anger has cooled in his joy; as for company, Gilliatt frequents Les Bravees more than ever, though he no longer plays music. He comes to ask how the rebuilding of the Durande is going, and stays to listen to stories of Lethierry’s travels. Lethierry wants stories in return—specifically, the story of how on Earth Gilliatt retrieved the Durande’s engine from the Douvres—but Gilliatt will only give vague snippets. He mentions finding Sieur Clubin’s corpse, for example, but quickly shies away from details. When Lethierry mentions the storm a day or so before Gilliatt’s return, asks how Gilliatt survived it at the treacherous Douvres, he at first says only, “I built some breakwaters.” Any more detail on how these breakwaters were constructed, Lethierry has to pry out of him—which he eventually does, but Gilliatt still understates the whole affair, as if surviving a storm in the middle of a reef, next to a shipwreck and the worst rocks in the area, is quite simple with the proper planning. Lethierry knows the rage of the sea too well to be tricked, but he is also getting to know Gilliatt, and knows Gilliatt neither likes to boast nor to discuss his own troubles, so in the end he has to let it go.

And, “When do you estimate the Durande will be able to sail again?” Gilliatt asks whenever he visits.

Maybe it is because he rescued it, but he is very eager to sail the Durande. He will make a good successor indeed. Sometimes these days Lethierry wonders why he didn’t think of getting Gilliatt to work with him before. Sometimes he wonders why he didn’t give Gilliatt more thought in general—why people in Guernsey don’t tend to notice a man so intelligent, so brave, so handsome—or when they do notice him, think of him in curses and riddles, barely see him as a person at all.

Gilliatt is a person, very much so. It is not even only that he is a hero, though he is certainly that. He is also a philosopher, and when Lethierry’s conversation veers away from tales of travels or talk of commerce into more abstract subjects, he is always able to follow. He is also, despite his usual solitude, very good company. He is quiet, but his presence is solid and amiable. Lethierry worries sometimes that he bores him. Once, when they are talking on the couch, Gilliatt actually falls asleep with his head slumped on Lethierry’s shoulder. Lethierry sits very still and feels a bit guilty: he’s talked so much and so late that Gilliatt has actually fallen asleep, and he knows his shoulder can hardly be comfortable, and worse, he rather enjoys the position. Gilliatt is… how to say it? He is not soft, but he is pleasant to touch.

When Gilliatt wakes up, and Lethierry apologizes for being a bore, Gilliatt says, “Of course you were not. I should have stayed awake, but I was out fishing today, and I was tired. And your voice is very calming.”

His smile is so sincere that Lethierry cannot possibly worry about it anymore.

* * *

While Lethierry rebuilds the Durande, Gilliatt has repaired his paunch. He tells Lethierry it sprang a leak, but otherwise weathered its time at the Douvres very well. Other repairs on it are merely routine. It is a sturdy boat, and continues to serve Gilliatt well.

“I wish you’d take me out in it sometime,” Lethierry muses.

“If you wish, I’ll do so.”

“I wish you’d take me out to the Douvres.”

Gilliatt freezes.

Lethierry says, “Oh, not that I need to see the remains of my old ship. But it is a point on which my destiny has turned. And I would like to see where you worked so hard on my behalf, too.”

“It is not so picturesque,” Gilliatt says. “As for me, I would rather not go there. They are dangerous, the Douvres.”

Lethierry eyes him. He suspects it is not the danger Gilliatt minds, but the location itself. Two months of hard work, alone in the middle of the sea. Quietly he says, “It was so hard for you, my Gilliatt.”

“Not so hard,” Gilliatt says, and Lethierry knows he lies.

“Why did you do it?” Lethierry asks him for the hundredth time. “By God, man, it was a Herculean task! You could easily have died.” And this thought, which only awed him on Gilliatt’s initial return, now, on closer acquaintance with Gilliatt, causes him shivers. Gilliatt could have died, and he would never have come home to Lethierry, and Lethierry would never really have known him at all. Gilliatt could have died at the Douvres, and Guernsey might not have even noticed.

“Why?” he pleads. “For an old man’s dream… it was not your dream, after all, Gilliatt. I do not understand you.”

Gilliatt smiles. “I did it because I loved you, Mess Lethierry. Have you not realized that by now?”

“We did not even know each other.”

“One can love at a distance sometimes,” Gilliatt says. “I have hardly known any other kind of love—I barely know any human relationship, and so it has always been. I do not know how to talk with people, or how to live with them. But sometimes a person makes you happy even when you do not know how to be with them, or show your happiness. I saw you sometimes—in the streets, or at a distance, or standing in the garden, or down at the docks—and it made me happy. One you said I was a good seaman, and you clapped me on the back. When we met at the docks, you always greeted me. It may be childish to care about such things, but such things do have value. You made me happy, so I wanted you to be happy. And you said whoever brought the engine back might pilot the Durande, and be your partner in the business. So I brought back the engine. I am still pleased with the reward.”

“Gilliatt,” Lethierry says, “I do not deserve you.”

Gilliatt huffs. “Well. But for some reason you do seem to want me. For me, that is very rare.”

It should not be, it should not be rare at all. Overcome with emotion, Lethierry seizes Gilliatt’s hands and kisses them. Gilliatt accepts this gravely; then, with a solemn expression, he kisses Lethierry on the lips.

There are still many things they ought to talk about, but the business of kissing is very distracting. So it is, when a lover first confesses his feelings and finds them to be reciprocated. There is much talk, and much of it very repetitive—over and over again, “I love you” and “I love you” and “I love you”, always the same though phrased in different ways—and also the need to kiss and to hold, and the two get mixed up and confused in each other, so that to touch and kiss is already to talk, and to talk is almost to kiss. Lethierry has known lovers before, but none like Gilliatt; to Gilliatt, on the other hand, all of this is new. So they are occupied for some time with the business of love. Indeed, beyond this happy day, it quite keeps them occupied until the repair of the Durande is complete.

Lethierry is almost reluctant to send Gilliatt out on the Durande after all. Gilliatt has almost died at sea before; moreover, Lethierry somewhat hates to have Gilliatt away from his side for even a day. But he loves the Durande too, and so he allows for business. Gilliatt goes out on voyages and comes back, goes out and comes back, becomes well known in Guernsey for something other than solitude and oddity. And the Durande becomes a phenomenon all over again, and that is all very good. But Lethierry is always glad when Gilliatt comes back from a journey, home to Les Bravees where he has now practically moved in, home to a warm supper, a warm welcome, and Lethierry’s warm and loving arms.


End file.
